


2. The Stray

by sahiya



Series: Five Times Someone Took Care of Neal and One Time He Did the Care-Taking [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within five minutes of meeting June Ellington, Neal realized that conning her would be impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2. The Stray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citrinesunset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Citrine!

Within five minutes of meeting June Ellington, Neal realized that conning her would be impossible. She’d been running cons since he was in diapers, and she was not going to be taken in by a pretty smile. If he tried to con her, Neal sensed, she’d pat him on the cheek and give him a detailed and constructive critique of his technique. 

Within ten minutes of meeting June Ellington, Neal realized that conning her was totally unnecessary, for the simple reason that she got him. Got _it_ , rather. 

It was such a relief. A little humiliating, too, but mostly a relief. Peter hadn’t gotten it at all. He hadn’t understood that taking someone out of prison, where they’d had a cell of their own and three hot meals a day, where their lives had been governed by rules and regulations and schedules, where there were no choices to be made and not much to be worried about if you happened to be Neal Caffrey, and dropping them in a fleabag motel with only the clothes on their back and the pocket change they went into prison with was frankly a little cruel. Neal had actually been quietly and efficiently suppressing an anxiety attack as he’d gone through that rack of clothes in the second-hand shop, and he wasn’t sure what he would have done if June hadn’t come in when she did. 

She went with him back to the motel to leave a note for Peter, and then she took him home - not unlike a stray dog, Neal couldn’t help but think. He tried not to _behave_ too much like a stray dog. He tried to be grateful without groveling, properly impressed with the house - which was certain impressive - without being overly awed. He could do this, he thought. He could remember how to be a person out in the world among people. 

June just looked at him knowingly. “Byron always wanted a shower when he got out,” was all she said, after she’d finished showing him the substantial top floor apartment that was apparently his, at least for the time being, and the walk-in closet full of suits that were also his if he wanted them. “Why don’t you do that, and I’ll see what my cook has prepared for dinner?”

“Thank you,” Neal said, already yearning for hot water, soap that smelled good, and shampoo that would tame his hair. His brain helpfully supplied him with more stray dog analogies - _it was important to de-flea before feeding_ \- but he ignored them. He’d actually dreamed of this moment a few times in prison: the first time alone in a real shower, hot water sluicing across his shoulders and down his body, taking memories of a thousand cold prison showers with it.

He knew he should be thinking about Kate and how to find her, but on top of everything else, it was just too much. In a few days, he told himself, standing under water that was just this side of too hot. In a few days, hot showers wouldn’t put him on the verge of tears. Then he could start to think about how to find Kate. 

June had given him some clothes to change into. Not her late husband’s hand-me-downs, either, by the looks of them, but soft flannel pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt that was probably two sizes too large for him. He put them on, and then, feeling a little like a kid in his pajamas, went out to find June and dinner waiting for him at the antique dining room table. 

Her cook had made lasagna for dinner. Lasagna, and garlic bread, and an enormous salad. A bottle of red wine sat uncorked and breathing beside the food. Neal had gotten pretty good at dressing up the bland prison food with things that could be purchased from the commissary, but fresh vegetables and spices had been unheard of. It had been over four years since Neal had had a sip of wine. 

Neal couldn’t speak. He hadn’t often in his life been failed by words when it mattered, but in that moment, he felt as though they literally stuck in his throat. There was a painful lump where they’d lodged. 

June didn’t say a word. She served both of them herself and poured him half a glass of wine and herself a full glass. Neal didn't argue. As much as he would have liked to get drunk, he knew it was a bad idea; Peter was picking him up at seven, and he still had to read up on the case. He sipped it slowly, trying to remember what Mozzie had taught him about wine once upon a time. 

Mozzie. He had to get word to Mozzie that he was out. Tonight, if he could manage it. But if not, tomorrow would be soon enough. 

Neal had worked his way steadily through half his plate before June spoke. “It helps to have a routine,” she said. “Something to give you structure. I imagine your Agent Burke will be happy to provide you with that.”

Neal managed a smile. “I’m sure Peter will be thrilled to provide me with all the structure I can stand.”

June raised an eyebrow at him. “Peter?”

“Agent Burke.”

“So I presumed,” she said. She settled back in her chair, her glass of wine cradled in one hand. “You know, in our time, my Byron was pursued by any number of federal agents. I don’t recall him being on a first name basis with any of them.”

Neal looked down at his plate. “Peter’s different.” 

“I hope so,” June said. “But if I may offer you a bit of advice, dear . . . ?” She paused, clearly waiting for him to tell her to go on. He looked up and nodded. “Never forget who you are and who he is. He might be a good man, your Peter. I truly hope for your sake that he is. But he’s a fed and you’re a felon.”

Neal was reminded strongly of something Mozzie had once said to him. “I’m the fox and he’s the hound.”

“Just so,” June said, nodding. “That doesn’t mean you ought not be friends with him. In fact, it would probably be your advantage if you were. But never forget.”

“I won’t,” Neal said. 

“Good,” June said. “Now, I imagine you want some time to rest and prepare for tomorrow, so I’ll leave you. But I’ll be up for a little while yet, if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Neal said, hoping she knew what he meant. He had no idea, truly no idea, what he’d have done without her that afternoon. It hadn’t often happened in his life that someone had shown him kindness without him having to earn it, either through conning them or through proving his worth. June Ellington was impossible to con, and she hadn’t made him prove anything. 

But she really didn’t need to worry, he thought as he closed the door behind her. He returned to the table and took out the file on the Dutchman that Peter had given him. He might be friendly with Peter - might even become friends of a sort, eventually. But there was no chance that he would ever forget who and what they were.


End file.
